


Novocaine

by aseventhhorcrux



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:25:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aseventhhorcrux/pseuds/aseventhhorcrux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Moran's a kid, straight from the military, doing a few recon jobs, but nothing much else. An injury in the war put him out of commission for over a year, and then Jim Moriarty found him. Jim needed a hitter, someone who could get the job done and kill who needed to be killed, and the man nearly to his thirties was the best for the job. He looked rough, tattoos and scars from the war, but he was bright and strong, and could get the job done. This is his story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Novocaine

As the days progressed it became harder for Sebastian Moran to bear to close his eyes. Closing his eyes brought darkness, and darkness brought an inordinate fear. Fear that held him down and destroyed all of his soul. Sebastian tossed within the linen sheets, calloused hands gripping savagely at the side of the bed. Darkness brought a fear that would not subside.

Light brown eyes shot open, it had been another hard night... he was beginning to regret the journey, The war, guns pointed others, a list of everyone he ever hurt, a debt he had to somehow repay.

Smiling.

Sebastian got out of bed and looked around his apartment from his bed perched up neatly in the loft, waking alone always seems harder than going to sleep alone. When he awoke he always felt vulnerable, as if waking up from a deep sleep meant that the cover he brought himself at night would be gone forever. He had to wash the vulnerability out of his eyes, appear in the interview and he had to show exactly what was. A ruthless murder, a killer without care. Sebastian was nothing more than that. Being a sniper for military was a nice version of what he was- he was a murderer, a corrupt prince upon a ruthless castle, used as a pawn and casting aside the garbage.

He moved down the steps, trudging feet unwilling to move past their point of origin. Friends would joke to him that his position up high was silly, that he was being ridiculous for requiring a loft  where he lived, employing hammocks and swings to keep him as far from the ground as possible. Mum always said the sky was the limit, and he would like to be as high up as he could. The sniper moved to the bathroom and began to splash water over his face as he ran over the words he would say in his head, memorising the precise diction he would use, ensuring his future employer that he was nothing but perfect. _"I won’t ask questions, I will be discrete, I won’t be a liability. I won't make any further promises."_ He was supposed to be cold as he wasn't allowed anymore to be a person, The price had to pay was his humanity, he had to be able to hide that and go on with his life as if he never had it to begin with.

He chose his outfit carefully. All black. All discrete.

Then he was off to practically sell himself to a notorious criminal-- what could possibly go wrong? A form of prostitution in the form of a job interview that he was sure would be too intimate for his own comfort. He went by the means of a cab, having them drop him off a block before the actual street. he wouldn't have them drive him to the exact place, it was a criminal organisation, it probably wasn't supposed to be seen.

Sitting in the waiting room was his worst enemy, granted this wasn't a hospital, yet it was extremely clinical white walls washed upon him as if he were surrounded by snow, cold. A smile was met with eyes of ice, as if he had no right to be there, he was looking at someone who was obviously the help.

Suddenly self-conscious he tucked into himself and refuse to look at anyone else, at least until the owner of those ice eyes announced, "He is ready for you."

He stood and smoothed out his shirt-- the crease not folding right (typical) and his mouth was suddenly sandpaper. He wanted to ask for a water but the tug in his chest warned him not to- she was busy after all.

"Thank you."

He sounded too excited- she could see through it- fuck. Anxiety his crippling crunch stood by him with a hand on his shoulder telling him that it would _**not be okay**_ that he could not pull it off. Fuck, _fuck_ , _fuck_.

He felt like an actor on stage as judgmental eyes stared expecting a show and wanting only the best. The office opened for him and walking into that he saw the form of Jim Moriarty.

He was taller than Sebastian, sanding back to him so he could only see them nicely tailored suit, expensive shoes and professional haircut. When he turned Sebastian almost expected to see mossy teeth and a poor complexion... he expected to see a monster. Jim's lips turned into a smirk that caused to Sebastian's blood to run cold, the nonchalance in his demeanor was off putting for the decorated military officer.

Sebastian's body did not reflect the inner turmoil, his back was straightened arms precisely at his side and right foot only an inch above the left foot. He looked exactly as his resume suggested he would, his long black shirt his the tattoos that he had recently gotten. His image was pristine.

Sebastian's face was cold and distant, eyes giving the other no favours and allowing himself nonfree movements. He extended his hand and the other, like a snake, glided out and took it. The sniper could have easily torn away but he didn't his back was straight as he grasped the others hand holding eye contact. He was not Sebastian Moran, city kid with an obnoxious mixture of a cockney and posh accent. He was Colonel Moran , decorated military officer, the best neighbour in London (possibly all of Europe), graduate of linguistics at Oxford University. He wasn't himself that day. This was business.

The other man released his hand and Sebastian dropped it to his side, jaw clenched and staring ahead.

"You're  impressive, I must admit it," his interviewer began, "I wouldn't have called you if you weren't. I'm curious as to why you actually came."

Sebastian having prepared himself for this, waited a beat and then began: "I've what I need. I'm not looking for a charity, sir. I'm looking for a challenge."

Moriarty grinned, showing all of his teeth in a sickly smile that cause Sebastian's hair to stand on end. Not allowing his discomfort to show, he stood staring at a small part of the paint, the off-white peeling to reveal a dark crimson.

Guns were so easy to handle for Sebastian. Sometimes he knew who would be on the other side of his assault, sometimes he didn't. He would stand from his perch and watch as knees buckled and crimson blood seeped into the sand, tile, grass, creating a mark into whatever was below them and creating a stain in Sebastian's heart.

Blinking he returned his attention back to his future employer who could have easily seen the catatonic moment in his eyes and yet not dare to comment or insult it... in fact he seemed impressed.

"There will be a probationary period," began the man, "in which I will give you tasks and the level of excellence to which you perform them will determine the amount will be paid and the length of your tenure." The man of ice sat, raising an eyebrow at Sebastian, who nodded and prepared to leave, "before you go tiger, I don't mind the tattoos but don't try to hide them."

Sebastian's mouth felt like sandpaper again, he nodded and briskly moved out of the room. He had the strange urge to throw up, maybe go running for a few miles. Something to expel the energy that was pressing against his chest and making it hard to breathe.

Moriarty made it clear: he had a job. He had a purpose. He had a reason to wake up in the morning. That was something huge for him. 

 

 


End file.
